


we'll always be more than a band

by littleghost



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, band au, lemonade mouth au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-06 06:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8738884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleghost/pseuds/littleghost
Summary: When Principal Tortorella tells Mitch his scholarship is going up for review, Mitch manages to convince him that if he and his band win Tourney, he could stay. The only problem: Mitch's band lasted for a minute in detention.
or: a lemonade mouth au.





	1. you used to brave the world all on your own

**Author's Note:**

> prior knowledge of lemonade mouth is not needed to understand this fic, but it's a great movie and i recommend you watch it anyways. title and chapter titles from a song within the movie. mouseover for translations, but they're also in the end notes. songs are linked.

Mitch sighs as he makes his way to the band room. It’s where he’s told to report on his demerit, and he honestly doesn’t care that he’s spending half an hour in the band room. Hopefully Mr. Woodson is the teacher; he doesn’t care what they do as long as they don’t break any of the instruments.

He’s not surprised when he walks in and sees Mrs. Harris, the choir teacher, instead. She has earbuds in, probably listening to the choir’s latest song to tell if any of the sounded off.

He’s still not surprised when he sees Dylan, who’s slouched in the spinny chair in the percussion section. However, he’s not expecting Connor, who is alternating at scowling at his physics book and making faces at Dylan. Brinksy is there too, looking lost as he stares at his AP Euro book. Mitch doesn’t envy him; Mr. Norman was a hardass.

Auston Matthews isn’t much of a surprise either, but he’s standing by the double bass and mindlessly plucking at the strings. It sounds familiar, but Mitch can’t really figure out what he’s playing. Auston looks up when the door finally _snicks_ shut behind him, and Mitch feels his face grow hot when they lock gazes.

Dylan is snickering at him when Mitch finds his way through the barricade of xylophones and snare drums that the freshmen set up every other day, much to Mr. Woodson, and the upper class's, annoyance. He lets Mitch shove him to the side of the stool, and they manage to fit both of their tall-but-lanky frames on the square seat.

“Did you drag Davo and Brinks into one of your stupid plans?” Mitch asks.

Dylan opens his mouth to deny that, but Connor cuts in with a, “Of course,” but he rolls his eyes as he says it, and Mitch can feel Dylan relax.

“Tried to go off campus for lunch and Brinks _offered_ to cover for us. Not our fault that Torts chose a Thursday for his parking patrol, a statistical anomaly,” Dylan says.

Mitch laughs. “You track Torts’s parking lot patrols? No wonder you’re not popular.”

“Fuck you,” Dylan replies, and digs his fingers into Mitch’s sides. Mitch squeaks and falls off the chair in his effort to get away.

Everyone laughs at him, the fuckers.

Mitch lays back on the carpet, and closes his eyes. Auston is still playing the bass, a soft melody in the background. He can just barely identify it as the bass part for _Every Breath You Take,_ but he sounds like he knows what he’s doing. He thinks he’s about to start humming along when Mrs. Harris finally takes her earbuds out, and claps her hands.

“Alright, you poor souls who managed to do the wrong thing today, we’re going to tidy up the band room!” She announces. Dylan boos, but she just ignores him. “The freshmen obviously have no idea what it means to be a good student, but they’re doing better than you since they’re not in here. So tidy up! Fix the chairs, whatever.”

And with that, she sticks her earbuds back in and leans back in the padded chair. Mitch lays on his back until Connor leans over him and offers him help up. Mitch takes his hand, briefly flashes back to sophomore year with his massive crush on Connor, and squashes it back down. His hand is warm and calloused from guitar, but the hand doesn’t belong to who he really wants. (Who also probably has callouses if he can pick a double bass so easily.)

Dylan takes it upon himself to organize the percussion area, because it is his domain, and he knows better than anyone else about how to clean it up. Brinksy starts pulling the chairs into orderly rows, and Connor begins grabbing the abandoned folders of sheet music, and begins organizing them. Mitch could probably mess around with the guitars, or he could go ahead and check out the spare instruments in the closet. Auston is still messing with the bass, so Mitch goes to check the instruments, and instead busies himself with creating a throne out of trumpet cases, old crates, and boxes.

He’s testing if the throne will hold him when there’s a short burst of feedback, then the electric bass being played. It’s familiar, and it goes on for a few moments until Dylan hits out a familiar sequence and then Mitch can hear Connor coming in on the guitar. He counts down the beat, and standing beside the door, he waits until—

“ _Tommy used to work on the docks,”_ he sings, and Dylan grins at him from behind the crash symbol, and he can tell Auston’s smiling even as he’s focused on the bass. Connor has the same hyperfocus on his guitar, but he’s grinning at the strings.

“ _Working for her man, she brings home her pay for love, for love,”_ Mitch says, getting closer to the strings so Dylan can’t hide his voice. Brinks is behind the keyboard, his hands positioned and he joins in on the keyboard and singing. “ _She says we gotta hold on to what we got, it doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not.”_

They go until the end of the chorus, and then Dylan slips and his drumsticks hit the hi-hat cymbal at the wrong time, and he cracks up. Mitch does too, because Dylan looks like a fucking idiot, and Auston and Connor trail off. Connor looks at Dylan with an amused but fond look, the same look he’s had for the past year and the same one Dylan has had since he met Connor as a lowly freshie.

They’re so fucking oblivious it hurts.

Mitch totally forgot about Mrs. Harris until she begins clapping from her padded chair. “That was… _amazing._ Mr. Marner, gosh, you have such a strong voice! Why aren’t you in choir? And Mr. Debrincat, that was _wonderful_.” Mitch feels his face grow hot, and he knows that he’s not the only one who wishes she would stop waxing lyrical about their impromptu jam session.

“Have you played together before? That was wonderfully put together,” she continues.

“No, I don’t know them,” Brinks says, motioning to everyone else. Dylans scoffs and throws the drumstick he still has in his hand at him.

Mrs. Harris nods empathetically, like they just told her they’ve been a band since primary school. “You should join the Tourney.”

“The what?” Mitch asks, despite himself.

“The Tourney. It’s like a talent but bands compete, and this year it will be sponsored by the school. Winning it is a pretty big deal; the winners do get a record deal.”

“I’ll pass,” Dylan says. Mitch knows his parents aren’t as supportive as him pounding on drums as they are his brother playing lacrosse. “Sounds like too much work, and I don’t need any more.” Dylan has two AP classes and he’s also taking physics with Connor, and somehow manages to be completely average and second-string on the lacrosse team.

Connor won’t do it either, because Connor and Dylan are mostly a package deal. Best friends (obliviously-in-love friends) who spend most of the day together. Connor sits on the bleachers during practice and games and studies, but still manages to cheer whenever Dylan does something good.

Auston doesn’t seem like the type, Brinks doesn’t really care for crowds, and Mitch isn’t doing anything solo, despite his “strong voice.”

“Yeah, we’re good,” Mitch says. He glances at the clock, and bends to grab his back. “And look at that, it’s time to go. See you tomorrow,” he says, and walks out. Dylan and Brinks have an hour of lax practice, and the field is on the other side of the building from the student parking lot, and Mitch heads off to the parking lot alone.

Except he’s not alone, because he can hear Auston’s heavy footsteps behind him. Mitch is walking slowly, ambling, really, and Auston has a couple of inches on him, so it doesn’t surprise him when he sees Auston coming up beside him.

“Do you know how to walk without stomping?” Mitch asks, then makes a face at himself.

Auston laughs, though. “I do, but what’s the point when you’re wearing boots that want you to be heard.”

“Yeah, okay. So are you classically trained or just versatile?” Holy shit, where is that brain-to-mouth filter that Connor always says he has in comparison to Dylan (which, _Dylan_.) When he looks over, Auston is smirking.

“Learned the electric, decided the double bass wasn’t that different. So yeah, I’m pretty versatile.”

Mitch can just tell his cheeks are a flaming red.

“See you in Lit,” Mitch says as he splits off to get to his shitty hatchback. He takes a moment to take deep breaths when he’s in the driver seat, and he turns on the radio as soon as he gets the car started. Country music immediately begins to blare from the shitty speakers, but he doesn’t really care.

 

Mitch gets called out of AP Lit the next morning, and Dylan _ooh_ s as he walks out of the class. Ms. Simmons just sighs and continues talking about _The Great Gatsby_ and The American Dream.

He hates getting called to the office. Principal Tortorella always ends up half-lecturing him about some tangential topic, and it usually wraps with a warning about his scholarship. Tortorella loves telling Mitch that “Toronto’s most influential private school gets more than a hundred request for financial aid a year, and few receive help.”

The secretary just waves him in, ad when Mitch walks into Tortorella’s office, the principal is standing beside his desk, inconspicuously flipping through a manilla folder. Mitch just knows it’s his student file; there’s something about Torts and passive intimidation techniques.

“Sit down, Mr. Marner,” Torts says, motioning to the overly-padded chair in front of his desk. They both take a seat, and Torts picked up his folder again. “You had detention yesterday for not wearing your uniform, correct?”

Mitch nods, and he sighs. “Mr. Marner, this school is highly competitive. Simple infractions such as being out of uniform can add up quickly over time. And this isn’t the first time you’ve been in trouble. During your four years with us, you’ve easily had one infraction each month. Which isn’t horrible, but you are here on a scholarship, and it may not be in this school’s best interests to use some of its funding for a rebellious student.”

“Sir, they were always simple things,” Mitch cuts in, but Torts shakes his head.

“Out of uniform, food fights, messing around in the chemistry lab, skipping class… Mr. Marner, this is not the type of reputation I want a scholarship student to have. You’re friends with Mr. McDavid, and I hoped his influence would keep you from acting out, but it’s obvious that was not the case.”

Mitch opens his mouth to protest—at the fact his scholarship is being threatened, at the idea that Connor would be able to influence him—but he abandons those thoughts. “Yes sir. Is there any way that I can redeem my character?”

“You tell me Mr. Marner. You have all A’s, you’re in the Key Club, but you aren’t active enough in the student body. You circumstances should have come under review at the start of your second year, but I’m afraid the administration was too lax back then.” Sully was the best principal Mitch ever met. “There’s not much you can do if you really want to end out your school year here.”

“What about Tourney?” Mitch asks. He barely remembers what Mrs. Harris told them yesterday, but she mentioned it was sponsored by the school.

“The band competition? Mr, Marner, you’re not in showband, nor have you shown any history of musical talents,” Torts tells him, “but Tourney would show an active role within the student body. Do you have an act, or something?”

“Yeah, we’ve been practicing for a few weeks, but didn’t know if we should sign up or not,” Mitch lies. Torts hums and makes a note on a sticky pad.

“Well, if by some chance you manage to win the Tourney, when your scholarship comes under review at the end of the semester, I might be more amenable to any past infractions.”

Mitch lets out a sigh of relief. “Of course. Thank you, Principal Tortorella. May I go back to class now?”

“Go on,” Torts says, and Mitch just about runs out of the administration offices.

_Jesus Christ_ . He has _no_ idea why he said that he had a band. He was a good singer and could play the guitar fairly well, but he’s not a band. And it’s not like the Breakfast Club can come back for a reunion tour; Dylan and Connor have too much to do, and Auston is barely is Mitch’s orbit.

When he gets back to AP Lit, Dylan looks like he wants to ask Mitch what happened, but Connor hits him in the arm before he can open his mouth. Mitch just gives them a smile that feels wobbly to him, and collapses in his seat. There’s a political cartoon on the projector they have to analyze, and he gets out a piece of paper. Dylan slides his notes on Mitch’s desk, and he manages to thank him before writing about how the cartoon calling out the American Dream as a untrue idea.

When he finishes his conclusion, he looks across the classroom and finds Auston’s gaze instead of the clock. Auston mouths something, and it takes three times before he gets the _are you okay?_ He nods and sends a thumbs up back, but he knows Auston doesn’t believe him.

Once the bell rings, Mitch waits around for Connor to finish packing up, and Dylan does the same. “Are you gonna tell us what Torts wanted?” Dylan asks when the classroom is reasonably cleared out. Mrs. Simmons is surrounded by students asking for help on their essays, and Auston is slowly making his way to the door. Mitch doesn’t let himself think that Auston is waiting for him.

“The usual, y’know? ‘You’re not living up to the expectation of the school’ and everything. Nothing new,” he lies. He doesn’t want to tell them that his scholarship is going up for review because MIndy Wallace is still in the class and she has the biggest mouth in the entire school.

Connor knocks their shoulders together while they’re walking out. “Torts is just being an ass,” he says. He’s on scholarship, too, but he’s a star student, has a 4.375 GPA, manages to juggle his three APs, being a teacher assistant, and being part of the Key Club. Torts _loves_ him.

Mitch doesn’t say that to Connor, because he knows Connor’s tired of living up to expectations. He can’t wait till the three of them all abscond to some university and Connor can finally breathe without everyone watching him for mistakes.

“Yeah, buddy,” Dylan says. “Just got the rest of this year, and then Columbia here we come!” He slings his arms around their shoulders and drags them into a weird, walking hug. Mitch presses into it, and doesn’t let himself think for a few moments.

Then Dylan lets go, and he and Connor slip away to go to their next class and Auston takes their place. He falls into step with Mitch, and he remembers that they have Civics together. “What did he really call you in for?” Auston asks they go up the stairs.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Mitch replies. They’re in school, and the feeling in his stomach is going to swell and burst out of him if he keeps thinking about it.

Auston nods and doesn’t say anything as they keep walking, but he surprises Mitch by following him to his seat in the side of the room. They don’t have a seating arrangement in Civics, but it’s still surprising when Auston sits beside him in the middle of the class instead of his back corner.

“Can you meet me at my car after school?” Mitch asks, turning to face Auston. He nods, and Mitch turns back to his desk and slides his phone out of his pocket to text Dylan and Connor the same thing. Connor replies with a quick _sure_ but Dylan’s text consists of emojis but a lot of thumbs up ones, so Mitch assumes he’ll be there. If not, Connor will make sure he is.

 

Mitch takes five extra minutes to leave Chem once the bell rings, talking about the recent lab with the teacher. He should’ve been quicker, he realized once he got to the parking lot, because Connor, Dylan, and Auston were crowded around his car. He slowed his walk, but Dylan had already seen him and started waving, which made Connor and Auston turn and look at him.

“Hey,” Connor says when Mitch gets close enough, and he reaches out to tug him in by his shoulders. Mitch kind of stumbles into Connor, but manages to right himself.

“Hi,” Mitch says, and looks around. Most kids leave quickly unless they have sports or clubs after school, and the area around his car is clear. “My scholarship is coming under review after the semester.

Dylan lets out a low whistle. “What the fuck,” he says. “It’s your senior year and you’ve haven't done anything insanely stupid.”

Mitch shrugs. “Apparently I’ve had too many detentions, I’m not an active member of the student body, and I should’ve been kicked out two years ago.”

“That’s just bullshit,” Dylan says, and Auston nods.

“So what are you going to do about it?” Auston asks. Dylan looks surprised, like he forgot Auston was even there.

“I managed to convince him that if we win Tourney then I could stay. Y’know, bringing glory to the school, and whatever.” Mitch tells them, and Connor instantly gets it.

“You want us to be a band,” he says.

“If you want to? I don’t want you guys to feel obligated to,” he begins, but Dylan cuts in.

“Fuck no, we’re gonna keep you in this goddamn school,” he says, and Connor elbows him.

It makes Mitch laugh, though. “Thanks. Connor, Auston, are you guys in?”

“Of course.”

“Sure.”

“What exactly does being in a band entail?” Mitch asks.

Dylan is quick to respond. “Practice, jam sessions, and checking out the competition. Speaking of which, we have pretty tough competition. Everyone loves the Kids. The three of them are fucking popstars over here.

“The who?” Connor asks. Dylan sighs his Christ-you-guys-are-oblivious sigh.

“Eichs, Johnny, and Larkin? Do you guys pay attention to the actual people at this school?”

Mitch, Connor, and Auston answer in unison: “No.”

“Well, how good are they?” Auston asks.

“Pretty good. They have a gig this Saturday at Wayne’s; we should go.”

“Might as well,” Mitch says, and Connor and Auston nod.

Dylan and Connor have to leave because Connor has a thing, but they promise to text him later about tomorrow.

“Let me give you my number,” Auston says, and takes Mitch’s phone when he hands it over. He taps at the screen for a minute, and his phone in his pocket lights up, showing through his definitely out of uniform black skinny jeans. Which are ripped. Jesus.

“Thanks,” Mitch says, and takes his phone back. Auston’s contact name is just his name, with the guitar and goat emoji after it. “Are you saying you’re the greatest bass player of all time?” Mitch asks, smiling.

Auston laughs, and it’s a really nice laugh, he thinks absently. “I’m good at guitar and bass, but I’ll play the bass if needed.”

“Good, because Connor only plays the guitar.”

“Noted,” Auston says, with a smile and Mitch starts thinking about how cute Auston is.

Here be dragons.

“See you tomorrow,” Mitch says, and Auston nods, walking away.

 

Before Mitch wakes up on Saturday morning, Dylan sent him about ten snaps of him and Connor around Toronto. Mitch screencaps all of them, because Dylan looks stupid (as always) and Connor looks long-suffering (he usually does). The pictures progress from a domestic pic of Connor  pouring pancake batter onto a griddle, and end off on Dylan using the lip-filler filter. There’s also a text from Connor reminded him about Wayne’s, and Mitch resists the urge to bury his face in his pillow and scream.

He wants a day to wallow, but he knows they have to hit the ground running. Tourney is in two months, and they’re totally unprepared. Mitch looked up the Kids last night, and found their demo, and they’re _really_ good. Any group of kids can sing Bon Jovi, but can they create a set list in two months and learn it by then.

Mitch looked for Tourney guidelines, and each band’s set has to have two covers and four original pieces. They could do Livin’ on a Prayer, because they gelled easily despite not even practicing. And he does have some original pieces, from messing around on his guitar. His lyrics are good, but the actual music isn’t. Auston or Connor could help, but Mitch knows who he really wants to help.

He spends most of Saturday doing homework, writing essays and studying flashcards for Chem, and by the time he needs to get ready, he’s panicking about what to wear.

Wayne’s is a weird gastropub that is like a club most nights. It’s a casual place, jeans-and-a-button-up kind of place, but this is the first time Mitch is going to see Auston when he’s not wearing a uniform, and he wants to look good. He wants to look _hot._

It’s times like these when he wishes Christopher was a sister, or at least had any fashion sense. There would be a move-esque montage of him trying on outfits until they find the One that would make Auston weak in the knees.

But it isn’t a movie, and Mitch knows he doesn’t have any clothes in his possession that could do that to anyone. He has to rely on his charm and smiles, which he has on good reference (a drunk Dylan Strome) make him 200% hotter.

Mitch spends enough time agonizing over the horrible, non-movie-ness of his life that after his quick shower, he only has enough time to debate between a worn long-sleeve shirt or a fancier button-up patterned with stars. He chooses the button-up, because his mom said the blue brings out his eyes, and moms are never wrong on that statement.

Connor is just as dressy as Mitch, but Dylan continues his Certified Slob™ look that Mrs. Strome and Connor commiserate over every time he has to go somewhere nice. Auston is wearing his ripped jeans, and a tight shirt that shows off very defined muscles.

Mitch’s knees go weak.

“Hey, Mitch,” Auston says.

“Hey, guys,” Mitch replies, trying not to stare too much at Auston. Dylan doesn’t care about ogling Connor, as he does it very obviously, yet Connor doesn’t notice. Mitch sees Auston looking at him, but tries not to assume anything. He's probably just trying to figure out the pattern on Mitch’s shirt, he reasons.

“The Kids are supposed to start in an hour, but I’m hungry and these guys have really good burgers,” Dylan says, “so let’s eat.”

They end up in a booth, Dylan and Connor taking one side and leaving Mitch with Auston. The booths are rather small, and Mitch ends up with Auston’s thigh warm against his own. He doesn’t want to think about it, but Auston is really fucking warm.

Mitch’s stomach is in knots, so he just gets a vanilla milkshake and a plate of fries, and dips the fries in his milkshake. Dylan makes faces at him because he thinks it’s gross, but Dylan’s burger is stuffed with cheese, so to each their own. Mitch lets Connor have some of his milkshake, and slaps away Dylan’s hands every time he tries to steal one of his fries.

As the hour passes, Wayne’s gets busier. They finish up their food and find spots along the bar, facing the stage where a few guys are setting up equipment. Dylan procures a Molson for himself, and manages to get Auston one when he asks. Mitch isn’t much for drinking, so he abstains and Connor does too.

When the Kids do get on stage, there’s cheering from the crowd. Jack Eichel waves at the crowd, says some stuff about being happy to be here, and they begin playing.

The crowd quiets down while Larkin drums, but when Johnny comes in on his guitar, the crowd begins yelling. It’s obviously a fan-favorite, and some people sing the lyrics along with Eichs.  The Kids are good at reading the atmosphere of the crowd, shifting into slower songs after a fast-paced one, just when the crowd begins to get tired. And then they amp it up afterwards, with something faster.

Dylan drags Connor into what seems to be the dance floor, and they disappear between gyrating bodies. Auston shifts closer to Mitch, and slings one arm around his shoulders. Mitch tries to be subtle in how he leans against it, but he’s pretty sure Auston noticed.

“We need a fanbase,” Mitch mutters to himself, but Auston overhears.

“What?” He asks, leaning down.

MItch turns, saying, “We need to get a fanbase,” but the volume of his voice trails off when he realizes how _close_ their faces are.

Auston’s flicker down, and Mitch thinks _maybe_ , but then Auston straightens back up. He keeps his arm around Mitch, though, and that’s a good sign. Hopefully.

It’s obvious the Kids are well-known and well-loved. Their little band needs to build up a fanbase, because having a crowd that knows their songs would help their performance. Or, the judges for Tourney will think they’re successful, an actual band, and not a last-ditch effort to keep on of its members in school.

Connor makes his way back without Dylan, and sits on the stool next to Mitch. He looks tired, his forehead shining, and he gets a bottle of water from the bartender. Dylan pops up after Connor’s drank half the bottle, and drinks the other half. Dylan leans against Connor, who lets him.

Mitch wonders if they mirror each other, with Dylan and Connor a little unit, and Mitch and Auston beside them.

The Kids are still going, nearing an hour. They’ve played mostly original songs, with some covers mixed in. Mitch can tell that they’re going to be the hardest team to beat. They’re like a real band already.

Mitch leans into Auston some more, who takes his weight easily. Auston is built like a brick shithouse or something, entirely solid behind Mitch, and really warm, and he’s really comfortable. The band starts a slower song, and Mitch knows he’s getting tired. Between a long day and Auston’s warmth, Mitch just wants to sleep.

He doesn’t really fall asleep, but the minutes blur until Eichs is speaking again. He thanks the crowd for being there, and then it’s over. Mitch yawns as he pushes himself away from Auston, and Dylan looks amused.

“Is it after your bedtime?” He teases.

“Fuck off, Stromer,” Mitch grumbles.

It takes awhile for them to get outside, as the crowd is moving to. They finally get outside, and to their cars, which aren’t that far apart.

“We have a lot of work to do,” Mitch says, “and we really need to have a fanbase or something before Tourney.”

Connor nods. “The Kids are playing at Formal, but I probably could convince Torts to split the time between us and them.”

“I hate Formal,” Dylan whines, and Connor hits him without looking.

“We also need four original songs to play. I have lyrics, but I’m not good at the actual music,” Mitch says.

“I can help with that,” Auston offers.

Mitch smiles at him. “Great.”

“Well, Davo and I gotta go if we want to hit curfew. See you at school,” he says, and Connor follows him to Dylan’s car.

“So you wanna write songs with me?” Mich asks Auston.

“Of course. I’m good at guitar too, remember?”

Mitch laughs. “I remember. When do you wanna do this?”

“My place, tomorrow?” Auston offers.

“Sounds good. Text me your address?”

“Of course. ‘Night, Mitch.”

“Goodnight, Auston,” Mitch said, and walked towards his car. He was so tired minutes earlier, but now he feels electric. He wants to do something, but he also just wants to go home and sleep. It’s been a long week, and he wants to let himself take a minute before he has to get going.

He sleeps as soon as he gets home, and wakes up mid-morning to a text from Auston. It’s his address, and then a text asking if around one was okay.

Mitch replies with _okay,_ and lays in bed for a minute more. He’s spent more time with Auston in the past two days than he has in the three years he’s known about him, and Mitch’s crush is just getting bigger. Yesterday didn’t help, with Auston always touching him at Wayne’s.

But Auston initiated every time they touched. Mitch doesn’t want to read into it, but maybe Auston likes him back. Mitch sighs, and pushes himself out of bed. The best way to forget about a maybe-reciprocal crush is to throw himself into the monotonous solving of AB Calc problems.

Auston’s house is only five minutes away from Mitch’s, but they look totally different. The Matthews house is big, an open front yard and probably a big backyard. Mitch’s house is small, a one-story house with a desolate yard and barely any room in the back. Mitch used to share a room with Christopher, and he still has a bunk bed for when Chris comes home for a visit.

He knocks on the front door, and it’s opened seconds later by a teenage girl. She looks at him and then turns to yell up the stairs,  “Auston! ¡Tu novio esta aqui!”

_What?_ Mitch thinks. He took three years of French, not Spanish, and is entirely confused. There’s heavy footsteps, and Mitch can see Auston hurrying down the stairs, his cheeks a light pink.

“Go away, Breyana!” He says, shooing her away from the door. She rolls her eyes in typical teen girl fashion, and wanders off. “Sorry about her,” Auston says. “She’s thirteen and listens to MCR as often as possible.”

Mitch laughs. “I was more of a Pierce the Veil kid at that age,” he says, and Auston laughs.

“MCR runs in the family,” he says, his smile crinkling the corner of his eyes. “Let’s go upstairs, where Breyana won’t bother us. Did you bring those lyrics you were talking about?”

In response, Mitch holds up his lyric notebook. He earmarked the better ones earlier, and ripped out the sonnets he wrote about Auston. None of them were particularly specific, but he didn’t want to take that chance.

“Awesome,” Auston says, and leads the way upstairs. Mitch had been half-expecting, half-hoping that they would go into Auston’s bedroom, but instead he leads Mitch into a room that looks like a mini-recording studio. There’s a bass guitar laid across a chair, and against the wall is an electric guitar and two acoustics. Amps are lined up along the wall, with one by the chair.

“Holy shit,” Mitch says.

“I know right,” Auston replies. He grabs another chair and puts it beside the one with the bass. “Let me see what you got,” he says.

He switches out for one of the acoustics as Mitch flips through the pages for one of the better songs he’s written. “Here. I wrote this earlier in the year and it’s kind of teenage emo, but.” Auston takes it and reads over the lyrics.

“Sounds exactly like something the leader singer of a band would write,” he says, and Mitch laughs. “How did you think it was going to go?”

Mitch sings, _[“Long live the reckless and the brave. I don't think I wanna be saved, my song has not been sung. So long live us.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PnKngbW31Sw) _ ”

Auston takes a moment, but he strums out a few chords. “Okay, begin on three. One, two, three.” Mitch begins singing as Auston starts playing, and it sounds. Really good.

“That was great, Auston!” Mitch exclaims, and Auston shrugs.

“It wasn’t that good.”

“Yeah it was. C’mon, let’s do this.” Mitch says, and they work on it for an hour.

At the end, they have a piece of paper with the lyrics and the chords on it, and a recording that Mitch sends to Connor and Dylan. He managed to get Auston to sing along on the chorus, and it sounds better than just Mitch alone.

“You have a really nice voice,” Mitch says when they finish recording.

Auston smiles. “Thanks, but it’s not as good as yours.”

Mitch laughs. “I’m good at playing guitar but not as good as you,” he counters. Really, Mitch’s guitar skills only go as far as playing covers by ear, and not actually writing his own stuff.

“Touche,” Auston responds. “Is there another song, or is this it for today?”

“I have more lyrics, but nothing as done as this.” He flips through his notebook. “I wrote this Friday, and it’s angry and sad? I don’t know.” He hands Auston the notebook who skims over the words.

“Yeah, I can see. Let’s try this.” He strums a few chords on his guitar, and begins singing. _[“Manage me, I’m a mess. I wanna be laughed at, laughed with, just because](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C4C9BKNx8pI) _. How’s that?”

“Still better than anything I could’ve done,” Mitch says truthfully, but follows it by saying, “and really good.”

Auston keeps strumming, and writes down the chords on another sheet of paper. “Let’s try and finish this so we can send it to Dylan and Connor. Two out of four songs down.” He says, and Mitch nods.

It takes them longer on this one, because Mitch keeps tweaking the lyrics. It’s closer to four when they finish, and as Mitch is sending Connor and Dylan the new recording Auston asks, “Hey, how good are you at Biology?”

“I had above a 95 the entire year,” Mitch says. “Do you need help?”

“Yeah, that would be great,”Auston says, and this time he leads Mitch to his room.

Auston’s room isn’t that remarkable. There are posters of the Jays and the Leafs, and a few band posters of Green Day and the Neon Trees. His room is big, though, and he has a full sized bed. Auston sits down on it, pulling his bag up and looking through it, presumably for his Biology binder. Mitch sits beside him, and is skewed towards Auston because of their weight difference.

“Shit, sorry,” he says as he knocks into Auston’s shoulder before scooting himself away.

“Don’t worry,” Auston says. He pulls out a binder and drops it onto Mitch’s lap. “I’m horrible at remembering cell history,” he says, and opens it to his notes he took. Mitch looks over them, having trouble with his handwriting.

“No offense, but you’re really bad at taking notes,” he says, and Auston laughs. “The best way to remember your lecture notes is rewrite them with extra information from the textbook.”

Auston groans. “I hate writing notes. I can barely understand my own handwriting.”

“Do you want my old notes? I don’t have the best handwriting but they’re pretty good.”

“You have great handwriting, shut up,” Auston says. “And yeah, that would be great.”

Mitch nods. “I’ll bring them to school tomorrow.”

Someone knocks on the door, but doesn’t wait for an answer for opening it. It’s Auston’s mom, he assumes. “Auston, why didn’t you introduce your friend?” She asks, but she’s smiling softly.

“Mamá,” Auston whines, but he stands up and tugs Mitch up to. “Mitch, this is my mom, Mamá, this is Mitch,” he says.

“Hello, Mitch. Will you be staying for dinner?” She asks.

“Oh, no, I can’t. I need to leave to get home, actually. Thank you for offering, though,” he says, but she keeps smiling.

“Another day,” she suggests, and he nods.

“Sounds good. See you tomorrow, Auston. Goodnight, Mrs. Matthews,” he says.

“I’ll walk you out,” Auston says, and he places his hand on the small of Mitch’s back as he leads him into the hall and down the stairs.

“Thanks for helping me with the songs, and all this,” Mitch says when they’re on the porch.

“No problem. And I want to, Mitch. We all want to do this,” Auston replies, and he makes sure that Mitch is looking at him.

There’s something stuck in Mitch’s throat. “Thanks,” he says again, and Auston smiles softly.

“Don’t worry about it. See you tomorrow,” he says, and tugs Mitch in for a quick hug before letting go.

Mitch spends three extra minutes driving around his neighborhood just so he can listen to _What’s It Gonna Be?_ by Shura when it comes on his playlist.

 


	2. now we won't let you go, go it alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry chrysler
> 
> mouseover for translations, songs are linked

Connor and Dylan love the recordings that Mitch sent them. Connor replies with an actual message, in which he wrote about a paragraph of why he loved the songs. Dylan responds with a series of emojis that seemed to mean that it sounded like sex to his ears. Mitch replies to Connor, and leaves Dylan on read like he does half the time.

When Dylan notices, he sends _:^’(_ and Mitch has to reply _is that a snot?_ Dylan doesn’t text him back all night.

On Monday, Mitch drives to school on a dangerously empty tank of gas, and parks next to Dylan. He’s still in the car, and whatever song he’s listening to is loud enough that Mitch can feel the bass when he steps onto the pavement.

He bas to open the door to get Dylan’s attention. “What the fuck, Strome?” Mitch asks as the chords of the second song (tentatively named Weightless) fades.

“Goodmorning, Mitch!” Dylan says. “I woke up this morning, and just _had_ to listen to Mitch and Auston’s greatest hits!” He grabs his bag from the backseat, and slings his arm around Mitch’s shoulders and steers them towards the school.

“You are so full of shit,” Mitch says, but lets himself relax.

One of Dylan’s greatest qualities is his ability to act so stupid that people just just relax and not worry about anything. It’s probably the main reason he and Connor are such great friends, because Connor stresses about anything and everything.

“They do sound good, and I have great ideas about drums on both of them.” He says. “And Davo’s already started learning the chords on that sheet you sent him. How proactive.”

Mitch laughs. “Fuck off. And that’s great. What’s your lax schedule this week?”

Dylan rattles off his practice and game schedule, and they decide that the best time to get together for a practice would be Wednesday evening. He also knows Connor’s schedule too, in a sign of their disgusting codependency.

Mitch ditches him to get to Economics, which passes quickly because all they do is take a vocab test and Mr. Lawrence lectures them for an hour. The morning flies by, and at lunch Mitch sets his tray down at his usual table, and waits for Connor and Dylan to show up.

A tray hits the table beside him, and Mitch turns to look at Auston, who’s actually in uniform. “Wow, Mr. Matthews, I didn’t even know you had a school uniform.”

“I didn’t know you had a collared shirt,” Auston replies, flicking at the shirt in question, “considering all the times you don’t wear them.”

“Uniform shirts are optional if you have a school sweatshirt,” Mitch tells him, gesturing to the oversized hoodie. It’s probably not even his, one of Dylan’s or Connor’s that he picked up and never returned.

“Words to live by,” Auston says. He takes his fork out of the plastic wrapping and begins poking at the mound of… something on his tray. “For a private school, I would hope they would have actual food.”

“Private schools are for profit,” Mitch mutters, and turns his plate around so the brownie and roll face him. He begins tearing off pieces of his roll and eating them as Dylan and Connor come.

“Mitch, tell Connor that he’s overreacting,” Dylan pleads.

Mitch shrugs. “Overreacting to what?”

“The fact that Eichel told him ‘good luck’ for the test in Physics.”

“Connor, you’re overreacting because there’s no way that Eichel can beat your 103 in that class.” Mitch tells Connor. Connor likes to make big deals out of every time Eichs says something about grades or school, because Connor has top marks and Eichs is right behind him by a slim margin of one point.

“Thank you!” Dylan exclaims. He looks at his tray and says, “Gross. Mitch, gimme your brownie.”

“Fuck no,” Mitch replies, holding a hand protectively over his brownie. School brownies are really good. It’s one of the few things that the school buys quality ingredients for.

Connor sighs and breaks his brownie, giving part of it to Dylan. It’s the smaller half, but it still makes Dylan gasp and press a smacking kiss to Connor’s cheek. Mitch raises an eyebrow at Connor, who’s just turning a bright red.

“Oh, my God,” he hears Auston whisper beside him. Mitch turns and sees Auston looking between Connor and Dylan with a look of disbelief.

“I know right?” Mitch mutters, and Auston looks at him, smiling slightly.

“Stop whispering,” Dylan says. “It’s rude.”

“Yes, Mom,” Mitch says, and eats the rest of his roll. When the bell rings for the end of the lunch wave, Mitch pokes Auston to get his attention. “I almost forgot! Here are last year’s notes,” he said, taking a binder out of his bag.

“Oh, thanks,” Auston says, taking the binder. He flips through the first few pages and says, “Yeah, these are so much better than my notes.”

“Are those Mitch’s Bio notes?” Dylan asks, butting his way into a conversation he could stay out of. “Those saved my life when it was time for finals.”

“Thanks for the glaring review,” Mitch says, dryly. “C’mon, let’s get to Astronomy before we’re late,” he says to Auston, who grabs both of their trays when he gets up.

In high school, that’s like laying your coat over a puddle. Chivalry isn’t dead.

Mitch was always aware of the fact that he had most of his classes with Auston, but he really didn’t have anything to do about until they actually started talking. Whenever they could, they would sit by each other in their classes. Auston sits next to Mitch during Astronomy and makes little constellations out of the stars Mitch draws on his notes. He gives them stupid names too, like _Petalias_ because it looked like a flower, or _Beakus_ because it faintly resembled a bird’s beak.

Mr. Brooks sighed and told them to be quiet no less than three times by the end of the period, but Auston would smile at Mitch every time he got Mitch to laugh, +so Mitch kept laughing.

On Wednesday, their practice didn’t start as smooth as Mitch hoped. Connor and Auston were in a corner, making sure Connor had the chords down right. Dylan was hitting the snare, a steady beat until he decided to do a random sequence and would mess Connor up. Mitch was just watching the chaos and the minutes on the clock tick by.

“Guys,” he said a few times, progressively louder. Finally, he took one of Dylan’s sticks and hit the crash cymbal. “Guys,” he began again, “we have to actually _practice_ if we want to get this down.”

Connor looks chastised, and steps away from Auston. Dylan stopped drumming when Mitch took his other stick, but now he just twirls them between his fingers. “Thank you,” Mitch says, handing Dylan back the drumstick. He steps towards the middle of the room, and Auston and Connor stand a little bit behind him.

“Let’s start with ‘Weightless’,” Mitch suggests, and they agree. Dylan taps out the beat and Auston and Connor begin playing. It’s seamless, with a few mistakes. Connor fumbles the chords and Mitch stumbles over the lyrics, but it’s not a total disaster.

They go at it two more times before switching to “The Reckless and the Brave.” They mess up that one, too, but keep going until it sounds right. Mitch is already thinking of minor changes that could make the lyrics smoother, but the song doesn’t need much tweaking.

At the end of practice, Dylan lies on the carpeted floor, groaning about how tired his arms are.

“You’re a lax bro, you should have guns,” Mitch tells him, poking at him with his feet, but Dylan makes more pathetic noises.

“But drumming is harder,” he whines, swatting at Mitch when he lightly kicks at Dylan’s arms.

“Fuck you, my arms hurt from playing guitar,” Connor bitches, but the corner of his mouth is turned up and his expression is entirely found. Mitch locks eyes with Auston and rolls them, conveying his annoyance at the oblivious pair.

He moves closer to Auston while the other two continue bickering. “Thanks for letting us use your music room,” he tells Auston.

“Wasn’t getting much use, anyways. I usually practice in my room, so,” Auston says shrugging.

“Will you accept thanks for helping Dylan bring his drum kit all the way up here?” Mitch asks. Mitch didn’t do much besides stare at Auston’s arms as he carried up the bass drum.

Auston smiles slightly. “Sure, I’ll accept that.”

Mitch glances behind them and sees that Connor is on the floor as well, using Dylan’s stomach as a pillow. “Oh, my God, they’re sickening,” he complains.

Auston looks at him, and Mitch looks back, before breaking eye contact first. There was something in Auston’s eyes that he doesn’t want to think about yet. “Yeah, they are,” Auston agrees softly.

Mitch doesn’t know what to say or do, because Auston’s expression is the same fondness he sees on Connor’s when talking about Dylan, and he doesn’t know what to do with that. Before he can decide, the door to the room opens and Mrs. Matthews comes in.

“Boys, are any of you staying for dinner?” She asks. Mitch checks his phone and realizes it’s past five.

“I would love to,” Connor says, and Dylan echoes his sentiments.

“Of course,” Mitch says, smiling. Auston nudges him and Mitch presses back, and it feels like _something_.

Dinner with the Matthews goes well. Mitch sits beside Auston, and Connor then Dylan on his other side. The dinner table is full of noise, as Auston’s dad questions Connor and Dylan about school, while Breyana engages Mitch and Auston in an argument over their favorite bands, and Mrs. Matthews talks to everyone.

There’s casual use of Spanish, too, and Mitch is still confused by what’s being said. Connor knows some Spanish, but he doesn’t seem to be following the conversations at all. Every time Breyana seems to be saying a snide comment to Auston (which seems to make his cheeks redden), her mom says, “¡Cállate, Breyana!”

It doesn’t stop her for too long, because she keeps doing it. Mitch finds it endearing, because he’s never had a younger sibling. He _is_ the younger sibling, and he knows Chris called him a brat often enough. Auston lets Breyana say whatever to him, and never gets mad, which is a totally different dynamic from Mitch and Chris.

While Mitch and Auston are discussing bands, Dylan looks up from his plate and says, “Guys, what’s our band name,” around a mouthful of food.

“Gross,” Connor remarks.

“We do need one, though. The Kids have theirs, and so do all of the bands. Are we just going to go and perform as Untitled?” Mitch says.

Dylan points his fork. “That’s not bad.”

“No, we’re not naming our band Untitled,” Auston says.

“Um, how about something like the Young Guns,” Breyana says. She looks nervous for the first time the entire dinner, and Mitch smiles at her.

“That’s a great suggestion,” he says, and she smiles back. “So, wanna be the Young Guns?” Mitch asks the table.

They all agree, and Auston smiles at Mitch some more, and he forgets most of what comes after.

Once they finish dinner, Connor politely thanks Mrs. Matthews for the food, and she tells them that they can call her Ema. Connor compromises by calling her Mrs. Ema, and she laughs when he does. Dylan raves about the food to her while Connor and Auston dismantle his drum kit and take it down to Connor’s SUV. Mitch helps by taking the cymbals, but he takes his time doing the work, and spends more effort trying to see Auston’s muscles again.

He succeeds, but he’s sure Auston caught him doing so. Ema did too, because she winks at him when he glances over. He looks away, cheeks burning.

When he finally gets home, Mitch can’t help but write down a few lines that’s been running through his head since practice began.

_I wanna write you a song / One that’s as beautiful as you are sweet_

 

The closer to Formal, the harder it gets to steal time for practice. Dylan’s lax schedule is speeding up, with the game against their rival coming soon. Connor is getting more and more worried about life after high school, and he’s determined for top grades in every class, spending all of his time studying.

The only person who has as much free time as Mitch is Auston, and the two of them spend most of their time after school together. Sometimes they go to Auston’s house for a jam session, but they go to Mitch’s house just as often.

Mitch isn’t ashamed of his house, but the first time Auston comes over he suddenly felt embarrassed of the place he grew up in. He knows it’s stupid, that Auston wouldn’t care. And Auston didn’t, and said that it felt homey. Mitch thinks the Matthews house does too, lived in and decorated with knickknacks, but he doesn’t contradict Auston on his choice of adjectives. It makes him feel better, and he knows that’s what Auston was going for.

They spend the afternoon writing lyrics and messing on their guitars. Auston is so much better than Mitch, but Mitch was self taught and Auston admitted he had teachers before. He gives Mitch tips, and his playing gets a little bit easier.

Auston flips through Mitch’s notebook, glancing at the little snippets of unfinished poems and songs. Sometimes he hums out a line, or strums along, but nothing really sounds right. He’s quiet for a moment, and Mitch looks up from where he’d been scrolling through Twitter.

“What?” He asks, moving closer to look over Auston’s shoulder. Auston is looking at a song he wrote a few days ago, and he blushes. It’s vague, but if Auston reads into it he can tell who the song is about.

“This is a good one,” Auston says, and he strums a few chords. “ _[Can I call wake you up on a Sunday / Late night I think we need to get away.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yHK84vmcUUs) _ ” Mitch takes a moment to appreciate Auston’s voice. It’s deep, and he loves it so much.

“Yeah, that sounds good.” He says, and hands Auston a pen so he can write down the chords. He lets Auston work on the song, lying back and listening to the acoustic guitar and Auston’s voice.

It’s been a long week, and Mitch has been so tired. Exams are getting closer, and all his classes are adding new material on top of everything he needs to revise. He hasn’t been getting much sleep, and when he does it’s restless. But laying here, next to Auston as he’s singing one of the songs Mitch wrote, it’s easy to fall asleep.

When he wakes up, he can hear the sound of water running and there’s a warm body along his back. There’s an arm slung over his waist, too. Mitch doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to stop this moment, but Auston solves the problem for him.

He removes his arm from around Mitch, and Mitch almost leans back, into Auston, but he stops himself. They’re not like that, not like Dylan and Connor and their weird, super tactile friendship that works for the three of them. Instead he curls more into himself, pretending like he’s waking up as Auston is beginning to strum something on the guitar again.

“I feel asleep?” Mitch mumbles, rolling on his side to face Auston. Auston’s cheeks are red, and his smile is fond, and Mitch wishes he was still in those arms.

“Just for a little while,” Auston assures him, and strums a few chords.

“What you got,” Mitch says, and pulls himself up so he can see what Auston’s doing on the guitar. Auston plays for him, and it sounds great, just like everything Auston does.

Mitch tells him as much, and the blush on Auston’s cheeks grows darker. “Are you running a fever? You’re getting a little red up there,” Mitch teases, and presses the back of his hand against Auston’s forehead. He moves it down, to Auston’s cheek, then to his neck, and Mitch is leaning up and Auston is leaning down.

He thinks that it’s going to happen, that his little crush that he’s had ever since he saw Auston will finally turn into something, but instead Auston’s hand slips over the strings and creates a discordant sound that makes both of them jump back.

“Oh, my God, I’m such an idiot,” Auston says. Mitch laughs at him, and leans forward, and this time there isn’t a guitar in the way.

It’s hesitant on Auston’s part, and then he begins to respond, and it’s the best kiss Mitch has ever had. He’s content to just make out with Auston forever, music and school and all of his other responsibilities don’t matter when they’re kissing. It’s just Auston and Mitch, and it’s perfect.

When they finally pull back, Auston is smiling wide and Mitch knows his face is doing a dumb smile too. “Hey,” Auston whispers, and his voice is just a little bit raspy.

“Hi,” Mitch replies, and leans up to kiss him again. When he pulls back, he says, “I really like you.”

“I really like you too,” Auston replies, and Mitch beams,

“Good,” he says, and leans in for more.

 

In the weeks leading up to Formal, everything seems to be going perfectly. Dylan says that Mitch and Auston are grossly in love, and their practices are going perfectly, and their coursework seems to be slowing. Mitch has seen the movies, seen the montages. He knows that everything goes to shit after things begin looking up.

The week of Formal, two things happen: Connor begins crying in the middle of Lit, and Auston gets detention.

Students crying isn’t an uncommon thing at their school, but Connor has never let anyone at school see him as anything less than collected. He’s the model student, always on top of things, never stressed.

It takes Mitch and Dylan a moment to realize Connor is crying. They have an oral quiz, and their attention is on their paper and the questions Ms. Simmons is asking. It’s Auston who notices first, because he’s across the room from the three of them. Mitch looks up at him after he finishes writing his answer, and Auston is pointing at Connor. Mitch turns and looks, and sees Connor crying.

Connor never cries, really. Mitch can count the amount of times he’s seen Connor cry on one hand, and most of them were pain related. Maybe Dylan has seen him cry more often, but that aside, Connor never cries in public.

“Dylan,” Mitch whispers, and Dylan turns his head so he can listen but he’s still writing. “Dylan, look,” Mitch whispers with more urgency, and more volume.

It makes Dylan look up, but it also attracts the attention of Ms. Simmons. “Mr. Marner, do you want a—Mr. McDavid, are you alright?” She asks.

Connor looks up, wide eyes with obvious tear tracks. “No, I. I need a minute,” he says, and hurriedly stands up from his desk and walks out of the room. Mitch and Dylan immediately stand up to give chase, but they still have to finish the quiz.

Three questions later, Dylan and Mitch are making their way to the boy’s restroom. Connor is in the handicapped stall, sitting against the wall with his knees pulled to his chest. He’s still crying, but now it’s more like sobbing.

“Hey, Davo,” Dylan says, lowering himself beside Connor. Connor immediately leans into Dylan, who wraps an arm around Connor’s shoulders. “What’s wrong?” He asks.

Mitch sits in front of the two of them, his knees hitting Dylan’s. Connor uncurls himself, but he keeps leaning into Dylan. “Just, school. And formal, and _everything_. I’m just so overwhelmed and everything’s coming so fast and I—” He breaks off into a sob and Dylan pulls him in closer.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay.” Dylan tells him. “It’s not that long until break, and then you have three weeks to just chill.”

“No I don’t. I’m volunteering almost everyday, and I won’t have any time to chill.” Connor says.

“Connor, you don’t have to keep beefing up your resume. Any college is going to take one look at your application and will send an acceptance letter. You don’t have to spread yourself so thin,” Mitch says.

Connor is quiet for a while, before he says, “What if I’m not good enough,” in a quiet whisper. Mitch’s heart breaks.

“No, Davo, you’re so good,” Dylan begins immediately. “You’re the best, and fuck whatever you’re thinking that contradicts that. No one else has over hundreds in all their classes, and no one else logs fifteen hours of community service _every week._ You’re one of a kind, and you’re the best.”

Mitch joins in. “Connor, you’re going to be the valedictorian, and get into your first choice,

and every choice after that. You’re ace at school, ace at the guitar, and ace at anything you do. You’re always going to be good enough, even if other people don’t see it.”

Connor cracks a watery smile, but there are still tears falling. “Thanks,” he says. He doesn’t say that he believes him, or that he’s going to stop working so hard. The three of them sit on the bathroom floor for a long time, letting nothing between them.

 

The day Auston got detention was their last practice before Formal. The dance was the next day, and they planned a practice so they could run through their setlist and make sure they have everything down. They were supposed to go to Connor’s after school, but after ten minutes of waiting for Auston, Mitch, Connor and Dylan realized he wasn’t coming.

At least they didn’t select to go to Auston’s house, Mitch thinks as he strums the riffs from “Kiss Me Kiss Me”. Connor knows them better than he does, but Mitch is backup guitar to Connor, and he needs to know them. He mumbles the lyrics as he plays, feeling incredibly stupid as he sings “ _So kiss me kiss me / And tell me that I’ll see you again.”_

He and Auston kissed, and said they liked each other, and they should be on their way to something, but instead they just… left it. Auston texted him like he promised when he left Mitch’s house, but they just acted the same like it never happened. Mitch is great about confrontations, but not when he has to confront why the thought of going to school makes something bright swell in his chest instead of the anxiety that settled there since his talk with Torts.

After waiting twenty minutes, they decide to just practice, without Auston. “He’s late, whatever, if he wants to be a dick and not text, that’s fine,” Dylan says.

Their setlist is under an hour, just their few original songs and a lot of covers. The Kids can play most of their originals, because their music is available on Spotify. If Mitch’s scholarship wasn’t riding on winning Tourney, he’d be content to let the Kids win, just so they can get their recording contract and blow up. The Young Guns don’t get to do that, because they’re nobodies riding on Connor McDavid’s name. And besides, they’re the headliner. No one knows the headliner.

Halfway through their set, and halfway through “Weightless,” Auston bursts through the door. His cheeks are flushed red, and he’s holding his case.

“Sorry I’m late,” he manages, breathing heavily.

It’s too much for Mitch.

“Did you run all the way from school?” Dylan asks.

Auston shrugs. “Just about.” He leans his case against the wall and unzips it. He has the fabric case, but with the way Auston holds his bass as if it’s priceless, Mitch doesn’t know why he doesn’t have a hard case.

“Why were you late?” Connor asks.

“Detention.”

“For _what_?”

“I had to talk to Torts about my recs before school, and he’s American, and he said that since we were both proud Americans we should do the pledge together. I haven’t said the pledge in _years_ and I don’t remember the words, and I keep sitting in my chair because I don’t want to tell him that. He gets really mad, and gives me detention.” Auston says in a rush, and then looks embarrassed about his info dump.

“What the fuck,” Dylan says. “What rule did he say you broke, ‘Auston Matthews did not say the American pledge in this Canadian school’?” Dylan adopts Torts voice as he says the last part.

“Said that I was disrespectful. He didn’t even have a flag, what was he gonna do, face South?” Auston says.

Mitch laughs at that, and Connor smiles.

“What a dick,” Dylan says. “Sorry I called you a dick,” he says to Auston.

“When?”

“Early, when we thought you ditched and Marns was making sad faces.”

“Fuck you, Strome,” Mitch says, and throws his pick at Dylan. He misses, and it bounces off one of the cymbals. Dylan laughs.

“Sorry, Mitch,” Auston says.

Mitch melts. “Yeah, no, it’s fine. Now that you’re here we can get some work in, though,” he says. Auston smiles at him, but Mitch never stopped smiling.

 

Twenty minutes before Young Guns go on stage, Mitch is freaking out in the supply closet. Crowds don’t scare him, but the enormity of his situation does. All Mitch can think about are the what-ifs, and the longer he does the worse the scenarios get.

Most revolve around school and his scholarship, but sometimes they’re about Auston, and all of them end badly. He's working himself into a panic attack by the time Auston finds him.

No one goes into the supply closet besides the janitors, and the acrid smell of cleaning chemicals is sure to be stuck in Mitch’s nose, but for some reason, Auston finds him.

“Hey,” Auston says, sitting cross-legged on the floor to match Mitch. Mitch is slumped against the wall, and Auston reaches out to grab him, but hesitates before making contact. Mitch wants Auston to hold him, but his body is focused on drawing in oxygen, not speaking.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Auston chants. He’s obviously unprepared to talk someone down from a panic attack, and he asks, "Can I touch you?"

Mitch nods enthusiastically, and Auston hesitantly grasps Mitch's hand. Mitch latches on, his grip tightening enough that it must hurt, but Auston doesn't complain. Instead, he breathes deep and evenly, and Mitch finds himself automatically trying to match the rhythm. The bubble in his lungs lessens, and his breaths are getting deeper and deeper. It takes minutes before he can breathe without Auston's lead, and he reluctantly detangles their hands.

They sit in the silence for a few more minutes before Auston’s phone begins to light up with a series of texts from Connor. He picks up his phone and scrolls through them, before sighing and setting it back down. “Connor’s worried,” he states, and Mitch nods.

“We have to go on in five minutes,” he adds.

Mitch closes his eyes for a moment. “Can you… Can you just kiss me again?” He asks, opening his eyes. Auston is staring at him, mouth open. “Please?”

Auston surges forward, one hand already holding Mitch’s face as the other supports him. There’s a millimeter of space between their lips, and Mitch closes his eyes and closes the gaps.

It’s different than the kisses shared in his bedroom, this one more desperate than anything. It’s two kids stupidly making out in a school’s supply closet, just a flashpoint of time, closed off from everything else.

Auston’s phone lights up again, and he pulls back. “Three more minutes,” he says. Mitch sighs, and nods. He gets up, and Auston does too, and he can’t resist leaning up for a quick kiss. Auston’s hand is at his waist, and Mitch smiles into the kiss.

“Are you ready, rockstar?” He says.

Auston’s grin is blinding. “After you.”

 

The four of them had argued about what song to open with for a week before Connor chose. The stage is in darkness when Connor begins playing the iconic riff, and the lights turn on as Mitch sings, “ _Coming out of my cage and I’ve been doing just fine._ ”

It goes better than Mitch had expected. He doesn’t know what he expected, really. Maybe some booing, everyone not enjoying themselves. But they play covers and their few originals, and the crowd loves all of it. Larkin even looks impressed when their set is over, and Eichs congratulates Connor on his guitar playing. Connor doesn’t get defensive about it like he usually does, but just nods and thanks him.

“Aw, Davo’s all grown up,” Dylan says, slinging an arm around Connor and tugging him in. Connor goes easily, always has.

Mitch looks up from where he’d been setting his guitar in his case, and Auston is there, smiling at him. “So, I have a proposition,” he begins.

Mitch arches an eyebrow—or tries to, he can only arch one on occasion—and says, “Do you?”

“We can either stay and enjoy this lovely dance, or we can leave and go on a date.” Auston says.

Mitch pretends to think about it for a moment. “I think… I’d rather have a date,” he says, and Auston’s face lights up. He bends down and picks up Mitch’s guitar case for him.

“Can you leave now or,” Auston trails off.

“I can leave now,” Mitch says.

They say their goodbyes to Connor and Dylan, and they make their way to the parking lot. Auston’s bass is strapped to his back, and he’s still carrying Mitch’s guitar seemingly without any effort. Mitch remembers that first Friday, leaning into Auston and finding him solid behind Mitch, unmoveable. He swallows and looks away, but Auston gets his attention again by linking their fingers together.

Mitch smiles, and Auston’s cheeks grow red. It’s adorable, and Mitch leans into Auston as they walk, gripping his hand tighter.

Mitch road with Connor, so Auston stows their guitars in the trunk and opens the passenger door for Mitch.

“What a gentleman,” he teases, and Auston laughs as he gets in the driver’s seat. “So is this a surprise date or am I allowed to know where we’re going?”

“Mostly surprise, but it involves food, so any requests?” Auston asks.

Mitch responds almost immediately with, “McDonald’s.” He grins, a little sheepish, but Auston laughs.

Ten minutes later, with McNuggets, a Quarter Pounder, fries and a milkshake to share, Auston pulls into a empty lot. He grabs the milkshake and something from the backseat as Mitch gets the grease-spotted bag, and when he exits the car, Mitch recognizes his surroundings, sort of.

“Is that the fucking golf club?” He asks, incredulous.

“Maybe,” Auston says, and starts walking for the fence that surrounds the _private golf club_.

 _What the fuck_ , Mitch thinks, but follows anyways. If Auston wants their first date to be eating McDonald’s illegally on a private golf course during their senior Winter Formal, he’s really not complaining. It sounds fun, and besides, he’s still got adrenaline from playing.

Auston clambers over the fence easily, still holding the milkshake and what seems to be a blanket, and Mitch tosses him the bag. He knows that he won’t be half as graceful getting over, and when he slips as he’s trying to get a leg over, Auston’s hands are on his waist.

“Weren’t lying when you said you weren’t graceful,” he jokes, and Mitch scowls at him. It makes Auston laugh, so Mitch huffs and grabs the food, stalking off.

Auston grabs his arm. “Hey, no. First of all, that’s the wrong way. Secondly, sorry.”

Mitch laughs. “All is forgiven. Now where are we going?”

Auston doesn’t say anything and instead Mitch has to follow him. They walk for awhile until Auston suddenly stops. “Right here,” he says. He spreads the blanket on the grass, and they both sit on it, shoulder to shoulder.

Mitch sets out their food, and they eat for a few minutes before Auston dips his fry into his milkshake and Mitch shrieks.

“What the fuck, why would you do that to your french fry?”

Auston just looks amused as he eats the ice cream-coated fry. “It’s sweet and salty. I don’t know, it just tastes good. C’mon, try one.”

Mitch refuses, and Auston keeps trying to make him eat one, smearing chocolate milkshake and Mitch’s face. At some point, Mitch begins giggling and Auston’s attacks cease.

“What?” He asks. Auston is staring at him with a stupidly fond look, and Mitch feels heat in his cheeks because no one has look at him like that.

“Nothing. You’re just really cute,” Auston says, and leans down to kiss Mitch. They both taste like greasy fast food and chocolate milkshake, but Auston just deepens the kiss. At some point, Mitch falls backwards and Auston straddles him, stupidly big hands holding on to his face, playing with the hem of his shirt.

He begins kissing his way down Mitch’s jaw, and down his neck. Mitch lets out a moan when Auston bites down at the junction of his neck and shoulder. He brings his hands up and runs them through Auston soft hair, pulling every time Auston bites down. Auston makes a noise against his skin when he does, and Mitch is too out of it to think about that that means.

He’s trying to pull Auston off his neck, off the massive hickey he knows he has to kiss him properly when there’s a shout in the distance.

He jerks, and Auston moves back, and they both look into the blinding light of what they realize, belatedly, is a flashlight.

“Shit,” Auston whispers, and scrambles off Mitch. He helps Mitch up and grabs the blanket, leaving the trash behind for the guard to deal with. They run towards the fence with breathless laughter, and Auston clears it quickly, like earlier.

It takes Mitch a few false starts before he gets over, with Auston’s steadying hands at his waist. They still run towards the car, despite knowing the guard won’t catch them. They’re high on adrenaline, and when Auston pulls out of the lot, Mitch bursts into laughter.

Auston looks at him, grinning, and when he stops for a red light, Mitch leans over the console and kisses him, hard. “Best date ever,” he whispers against Auston’s lips. Someone behind him honks, but Auston still takes a moment to get going.

“I’m glad,” he says. Mitch smiles, and grabs his hand from where it’s resting on the gear shaft. It’s stupid and cheesy, but Auston’s smile when Mitch tangles their fingers together is more than worth it.

 

Over the weekend, Mitch exchanged increasingly cheesy Snapchats and texts with Auston. He spent an hour on Saturday staring at the purple bruise on his neck, too. He also did his homework, messed around on his guitar, and watched his notifications blow up as everyone began raving about Formal on Facebook.

Monday begins with Auston meeting him in the parking lot and them walking to AP Lit together. It’s nice, and Mitch knows that he can hold hands with his boyfriend without people whispering about them.

He spends most of homeroom loitering beside Auston’s desk until Ms. Simmons tells him to go sit down. Once at his desk, Dylan immediately begins whispering across Connor’s desk, trying to interrogate Mitch but Connor keeps elbowing him. Class is easy that day, as they just have to work on their rhetorical analysis essay. Dylan keeps redrawing his triangle until Connor gives him a perfectly drawn, equilateral triangle. Mitch is filling his out when someone calls on the intercom and asks for Mitch to go the office.

Something like ice floods his veins, but he thinks he looked normal as he walked out of the class. What-ifs run through his head again, but he tries to ignore them. Torts is just going to congratulate him, it’s not bad news, he reassures himself but he knows it’s not working.

The secretary just points towards Torts’ door, and Mitch steels himself before walking through.

Torts is standing in front of his big picture window, but he turns when the door clicks behind Mitch. “Mr. Marner,” he exclaims, “take a seat.” Mitch does, and watches as Torts shuffles through the papers on his desk. “I have to admit, that was a great show at the Winter Formal. Your group has a lot of talent.”

“Thank you, sir, we practiced very hard.” Mitch says, and waits for the _but_.

“Of course, we agreed that if you managed to win Tourney, it would look quite good on your transcript when it goes for review under the board, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Mitch agrees.

The other shoe falls.

Torts sighs, and pushes a stack of papers on his desk towards Mitch. “The board has convened much earlier than expected, and your scholarship came under review. I’m sorry, but, I’m afraid your scholarship ends at the end of this semester.”

Mitch is silent for a moment, before his picks up the stack of papers. Emblazoned across the top of the first page is **Immediate Notice: Cancellation of Financial Aid.**

“Oh,” he says, and it sounds broken.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Marner, I did try,” Torts begins.

“No, no, it’s fine. Thank you for giving me a chance. Can I go, or is there more?”

“You can return to class,” Torts says, and Mitch hurriedly stands from his chair. He mutters niceties as he all but runs out of the administrative offices, making his way to the restroom that he, Dylan, and Connor were in just two weeks ago.

The papers are still in his hand, and he wishes he had a folder or envelope for them so **Immediate Notice: Cancellation of Financial Aid** would stop staring him in the face. After gazing at the paper without reading it, Mitch takes his phone out of his pocket. There are messages from his friends, stupid ones from Dylan and more concerning texts from Connor and Auston.

It’s only five minutes until the bell rings, so Mitch pulls up Snapchat and sends a picture of his feet against the tile to all three of them. Dylan’s response is instantaneous, **do you want us?** set against a grainy, zoomed-in pic of Auston. Mitch replies with **yeah** , and draws a sadface in red.

He only has to wait a minute before there are three pairs of feet in the restroom. Connor is the first person to enter the handicapped stall, and he immediately lowers himself beside Mitch. He pulls at the papers, and Mitch lets him take them as Auston gets on his other side. Dylan is crouched in front of them, reading the paper upside down.

“Oh, shit,” he mutters when he finally reads the bold words. Connor does this little gasp noise, and hands it to Auston, who doesn’t even take it but still reads it.

“Mitch,” he says, and pulls Mitch in with an arm around his shoulder. Mitch makes this broken little noise and hides his face in Auston’s shirt.

“It’s over,” he says, his voice thick. “It’s all fucking over,” he says, louder.

Connor is quick to reply, “No, it’s not, we can find another way.”

“There is none. I don’t have a scholarship, I’m going to go to my shitty zone school. Everything is over. Don’t worry about the band, guys, it doesn't matter anymore.”

“Don’t say that,” Dylan says, but Mitch lets out a broken sob and none of them are arguing anymore. They’re just sitting there, hoping their presence comforted Mitch. It didn't.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me writing this: oh my GOD so cliche!!!!!
> 
> ok so u know [this vine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=deBdzC5QVQw)? that's how auston looks at mitch tbh
> 
> alright!!! 3 weeks for an update, i am Sorry. (not really, i'm just really bad at serialized things.) at this rate, you'll get the last part some time in january, or not. thanks for reading, give kudos and leave a comment??
> 
> follow me on [tumblr](https://astrophle.tumblr.com) for me talking about hockey, amongst other things.
> 
> edit (1/10/18): i don't know if anyone is reading this as it has been a long time since it updated, and i don't know if i'm ever going to finish this, but i went through and fixed some mistakes and a few Gross tropes i had written

**Author's Note:**

> tu novio esta aqui - your boyfriend is here  
> songs: _the reckless and the brave_ and _weightless_ by all time low
> 
> anywas, i love these boys and on wednesday i had the sudden idea for a lemonade mouth au, realized i forgot the movie, rewatched it and planned most of this out. i've been listening to music i listened to in middle school to get the right mindset, but it will probably be mainly all time low songs that they've "written".
> 
> follow me on [tumblr](http://www.astrophle.tumblr.com) for me yelling in caps about hockey players, and other things.


End file.
